


What Sweeter Music

by hesterbyrde



Category: Hannibal - Fandom
Genre: Age Difference, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Presents, Established Relationship, F/M, Kissing, abigail is of age, so are the cinnamon rolls, the hot chocolate is people
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-22
Updated: 2016-12-22
Packaged: 2018-09-11 01:04:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8947057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hesterbyrde/pseuds/hesterbyrde
Summary: Abigail's memories of Christmases past are not so rosy. So Hannibal wants to help her make some new ones.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sienna_smilla](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sienna_smilla/gifts).



> This is a Christmas gift to the ever lovely sienna_smilla who is a fellow lover of the Hannigail. Fröhliche Weihnachten!
> 
> No smut. All fluff. I sort of imagine that these scenes take place somewhere during my fic "Crucible" which chronicles Abigail's time with Hannibal during Season 2. It is an established relationship, but Abigail is of age.
> 
> Fic title is taken from the Christmas song, "What Sweeter Music Can We Make" by John Rutter.
> 
> Enjoy! And Merry Christmas!

Snow came late to the Mid-Atlantic coast. All through November, the skies were an occluded, dismal gray, and never did more than send down the pitiful suggestion of rain or sleet every few days. Just enough to keep things damp, muddy, and miserable. Abigail chafed at having to stay indoors. It was plenty warm and comfortable, sure, but it was also stuffy and dreadfully boring. She wondered, even with Hannibal's visits and her daily efforts with the piano and her Italian language books, if she might go stir crazy before the spring thaw.

Then, in the second week of December, when snow finally came, it seemed to be trying to make up for being late with terrific over-exuberance. The wind blowing in off the ocean mixed with a heavy snowstorm overnight and banked drifts halfway up the picture window in the back of the cabin, effectively snowing Abigail in. But crafty as she was, she'd already found the snow shovel out in the garage, and was busily planning to dig herself out and take a hike through the winter wonderland.

"It looks as if a white Christmas may be in our future." Hannibal opined when he arrived that weekend, dusting the still falling snow from his hat as he entered.

"Looks like." Abigail agreed. "Better snow than rain. I was about to go crazy cooped up in here. You want lunch? I'm fooling around with the sandwich press."

"That sounds lovely." He said with a capacious smile. "I brought you some groceries. Have a look. You might want to use them."

Hannibal passed the reusable grocery sacks to Abigail and she started sorting them out onto the counter. Some kind of hard cheese with a black wax rind. A side of ham. Some fresh bread. A few kinds of winter squash. A few handfuls of fresh herbs, probably from Hannibal's own store.

"That reminds me." Hannibal said, tapping a finger to his lips. "I've been meaning to ask what you would like for Christmas?"

Abigail hesitated mid-stride as she headed for the refrigerator, but she covered with a cough. "I uh… I don't know. Hadn't really thought about it."

"Did your family not celebrate Christmas?" he asked, his brow creasing a bit.

"No… no, we did. I just..." She mechanically closed the fridge and put her back to it, forcibly willing herself to make eye contact with Hannibal. His sharp face was pinched in concern as he waited patiently for her to go on. "I always got hunting gear for Christmas." She said, her words evenly measured and soft. "And then my dad and I would go hunting during the week between Christmas and New Years. Every year. Not exactly warm memories there."

Hannibal swept around the kitchen island and gathered her into a very tight embrace. She let herself fall into it, sagging into the plush softness of his cream colored sweater.

"At the mental hospital was even worse." She went on, her voice muffled by the cable knit. "God, they were all so cheerful and happy. And it was all just for show. Carolers from the church came and sang, and they would leave with these self-satisfied grins, knowing sanity and hot chocolate awaited them at their Sunday school teacher's house now that they had done their good deed and delivered Christmas to those poor, unfortunate souls at the crazy house." She shook her head and peered up at him, cracking a sheepish smile. "Sorry… I think I ruined your moment."

Hannibal smiled down at her, pushing an errant wisp of chestnut brown hair out of her face. "Nothing could be farther from the truth." he assured her, before dropping a chaste, sweet kiss on her upturned mouth. "However soon my stomach will start growling, and that will most certainly ruin the moment."

And with that, the two returned to making sandwiches as if nothing had ever happened. And Hannibal never mentioned Christmas again.

***

Weeks passed. More snow fell. And by the time Christmas arrived, the cabin was entirely snowed in beyond the help of anything short of heavy digging equipment. Hannibal had called to check on Abigail and make sure she still had power and heat, and to see if she needed anything. Abigail assured him that she was fine, but they both agreed it would probably be safer to wait until the plows could get around in the back roads before Hannibal made any attempt to come visit.

And so it was that Abigail was alone on Christmas Eve. She felt at first that she might be rather sad, but she found a certain amount of contentment in the warm, empty spaces of the house. They felt more her own than they ever had these past few months. And moreover, the season felt her own. No reason she couldn't celebrate in her own small way.

And so, she made herself a cup of tea with cinnamon and honey and a little cream just how Hannibal would make it for her if he could have been there, and dressed in her favorite fleece pajamas patterned in plaid and the occasional redbird. From her bedroom window, she watched the snow fall on the moonlit landscape, and the steam from her mug fogged the glass. Eventually, a warm, contented drowsiness overtook her. She clambered into bed, wiggling down into the freshly laundered flannel sheets with great relish, and was sound asleep within minutes.

***

The following morning, a bright beam of sunlight awoke her, pouring in the frosted window and casting beautiful fractal designs across the bedspread. She squinted and buried her face in her pillow again. Sleep nearly returned but before it could reclaim her, she realized she could hear music.

Abigail bolted upright in bed, blinking the sleep from her eyes. She sat absolutely still, her chest barely rising and falling, and listened with all her might. Sure enough, she could hear faint music coming from downstairs. She pulled on a pair of fluffy house socks and wrapped her fleece robe around her before venturing down to investigate. What she found below in the living room looked like something straight out of a combination of a Norman Rockwell painting and Martha Stewart Magazine.

She discovered Hannibal near the fireplace, dressed in her favorite red sweater, carefully arranging a strand of garland on a live Christmas tree that was taller than he was. Presents all in matching paper and perfectly curled ribbons were stacked so high that they pushed against the bottom branches of the tree. Everywhere were boughs of holly, trailing lengths of ribbon, and ornamental clusters of red fruit and pinecones. The pale sunlight that filtered in through the partially obscured window lit the whole scene of red and silver and gold, and set everything to glittering light. And over the top of it all played the most heavenly carols Abigail had ever heard.

"Hannibal?" her voice came out as little more than a soft, awestruck squeak.

He turned and smiled at her, clearly second-guessing his plan when he saw the astonishment on her face. "I fear that I can never resist taking things like this to excess." he confessed, with a convincing amount of contrition. "Merry Christmas, Abigail."

Abigail rushed into his arms and he let the momentum carry them around in a long twirl. Then he bent and laid a long, loving, and indulgent kiss on her lips. "Do I smell cinnamon in the kitchen?" she asked with a curious wrinkle of her nose in the direction of the kitchen.

"Mexican hot chocolate and freshly baked cinnamon rolls which…" he glanced at his watch over her shoulder. "Should be done now. Your timing is impeccable." He unwound his arms, dropped a kiss onto ther forehead, and swept them both off to the kitchen to retrieve breakfast.

With pastries and giant mugs of spicy hot chocolate in hand, they returned to the living room.

"Would you like to open your presents?" Hannibal asked, as he watched her eye the piles of presents under the tree.

"All of those are not for me, are they?" Abigail asked, excitement glittering in her blue eyes.

"Down to the last ribbon." Hannibal answered, curling a lock of her hair around his finger.

"I didn't get you anything." she said, her face falling a little as she regarded the heaps of gifts under the tree.

"Spoiling you is my gift to myself." Hannibal replied. "If you like, you can play piano for me when we're done with breakfast and presents. I would like nothing more."

"Mmm." Abigail hummed, the corner of her mouth twitching with pure mischief. "We'll see about that. But first… cinnamon rolls. These smell amazing."

And they were amazing. Redolent with spices, studded with sweet golden raisins, and overflowing and oozing with an obscene amount of gooey white icing that Abigail had to lick from her fingers before attacking the presents. 

And the presents… they seemed to know no end. Gift cards to iTunes and Netflix. A new set of kitchen knives custom with her name engraved on the handles. First edition copies of books about bird watching and fishing. A new pair of hiking boots, waterproofed and lined with lambswool. Sheet music that, while it was new to Abigail, was clearly ancient judging the soft curling edges of the yellow parchment. A knit dress in a soft salmon pink with a matching pair of shoes, and a gorgeous rose gold necklace set with mother of pearl and stones that matched her eyes.

And more importantly, there was not a rifle. Or latex gloves. Or any hint that she was anything other than a young woman with a fondness for bright colors and good music, and who was handy on a hiking trail, and knew her way around the kitchen.

"Hannibal…" she said holding up the necklace to her throat, feeling the weight of it between her fingers and along her collarbones. "I… I don't know what to say. No one's ever…" tears flooded unexpectedly into her eyes. "No one's ever bought me gifts just… for me." 

Hannibal swept the necklace from her hands and deftly fastened it around her neck. When she looked up she was facing the gilt mirror in the hall. Even in her ridiculous pajamas and fluffy robe, the jewels sparkled sharply in the pale morning light, making the color in her eyes dance in time. Hannibal, beaming, laid a kiss on her temple. 

"You look beautiful, Abigail." Hannibal told her, folding his arms around her waist. 

"Too bad I can't wear it out anywhere." she said, her smile fading a fraction, even though she continued to admire her reflection.

Hannibal gave his thoughtful little pout. "We could perhaps risk an evening out after the new year. I'll put in for a reservation at a restaurant with private dining rooms."

Abigail gave a girlish squeal and threw her arms around Hannibal's neck again, kissing him full on the mouth. "Thank you." she whispered, her lips bending in a roguish grin. "So… do you want me to play piano for you now? Or…" she gave a kittenish little swivel of her hips. "Later."

Hannibal mirrored her expression, mischief lighting in his inky black eyes and making them glitter more than all the ornaments on the tree. "Later." he purred, stealing another cinnamon spiced kiss before she led him upstairs by the hand.


End file.
